Month: April 2025

The ocean swears to bring things home,
Drifting letters, ships of stone.
It hums its vow in waves and foam,
A voice that sings, yet speaks alone.

Though tides may steal, though storms may take,
The sea does not forget or break.
For even when it swallows deep,
The ocean keeps the things we keep.

I am the last leaf on the tree,
Clinging where the wind runs free.
My brothers fell, my sisters flew,
Yet still I hold, though nights turn blue.

Will I let go, or will I stay,
Until the winds have gone away?
Perhaps my place is not to fall,
But to remind—spring comes for all.

Does the river choose its way,
Or does it flow where earth will stay?
Does it carve its path with will so strong,
Or does it simply drift along?

Perhaps we, too, are like the stream,
Torn between control and dream.
Yet whether course is lost or planned,
All rivers find the sea’s embrace at last.

The sky holds secrets in its folds,
In hues of pink, in streaks of gold.
Each star a whisper left behind,
Each cloud a dream we couldn’t find.
The wind may shift, the dusk may fall,
Yet still the sky remembers all.
For even when the night turns deep,
The sky holds secrets while we sleep.

A lantern burns through fog and night,
A beacon small, yet fierce and bright.
It guards the lost, it shows the way,
It whispers hope to those who stray.

But even flames must dim and wane,
Their wax consumed, their fuel drained.
Yet in the dark, though flames may die,
A single spark still lights the sky.

Voices fade, but echoes stay,
Lingering in the light of day.
A whisper lost, a song unsung,
Yet still it hums where hearts have clung.

An echo does not mourn its past,
It bends, it moves, it holds, it lasts.
For though the sound may drift and part,
The echo lingers in the heart.

There is a garden, wild and free,
Where lost things go, where time won’t see.
A single sock, a childhood toy,
A whispered wish, a fleeting joy.

The things we drop, the things we leave,
Take root beneath the autumn leaves.
And if you find this place one day,
You’ll see the past in bloom to stay.

The hour before dawn is soft and deep,
Where silence lingers, where secrets sleep.
A hush of dark, a breath so still,
A world between the lost and will.

It is the time where dreams still glow,
Yet shadows wait, yet night won’t go.
But soon the sky will paint its hue,
And night will fade, as all things do.

Dear stars, do you hear my call?
Do wishes fade, or do they fall?
Does every dream reach past the sky,
Or do they drift, too small to fly?

I send my hope on whispered thread,
A fleeting thought, a word unsaid.
And though I wait with longing eyes,
I know you answer with sunrise.

The wind knows names we’ve left behind,
It sings them soft, it hums them kind.
It whispers through the open fields,
Of love once lost, of wounds not healed.

It calls the names we fear to speak,
The ones we lost, the ones we seek.
But listen close—it does not mourn,
For every name is still reborn.